"The plaintiff calls upon Salvatore Vincent Maroni, also known as 'The Boss,' to take the witness stand!"
The courtroom was a study in formal solemnity.
The judge sat elevated behind his bench, expression carved from granite, embodying the weight of law and order. The jury occupied their box with carefully neutral faces, twelve citizens pretending they hadn't already been bought. Bailiffs stood at attention by the doors, hands near their weapons, silent sentinels of justice.
And the gallery—rows of spectators, some genuinely curious, most just here for the spectacle of watching Gotham's underworld tear itself apart in public.
Sal Maroni rose from his seat and walked forward with measured confidence.
His gaze swept the courtroom, cataloging familiar faces. There—Assistant District Attorney Vernon Wells, sitting primly among the prosecution team. Maroni suppressed a smile.
Look at him. The rat playing both sides. Does he even know which team he's on anymore?
Then Maroni's eyes landed on Harvey Dent, and surprise flickered across his face.
The prosecutor stood near his table, and he was... radiant.
Harvey wore a crisp white suit—not cream, not off-white, but pure, brilliant white that seemed to glow under the courtroom's fluorescent lights. Paired with a snow-white shirt, silver-gray silk tie, and polished black leather shoes, the entire ensemble was spotless. Pristine. Almost painful to look at directly.
The lights caught his blonde hair, making it gleam like a halo.
He looked like he was about to step onto a stage. Accept an award. Deliver a speech at a gala.
Not prosecute the most dangerous crime lord in Gotham.
When Harvey Dent had first arrived in Gotham as a rookie prosecutor, he'd been exactly like this. Young, handsome, shining with idealism and potential. A golden boy. People had called him Apollo, the sun god, bringer of light and truth.
How long ago that seemed now.
No one particularly cared about the exact timeline. Maroni's colleagues only remembered the years since—watching Harvey Dent get dragged down by Gotham's sins. Ground down by endless battles against Falcone, Maroni, the super-criminals. In just a few short years, the golden boy had dried up, shriveled, aged prematurely into a gray, exhausted middle-aged man.
Seeing him like this—returned to his original glory, practically glowing with renewed purpose—was jarring.
"Prosecutor Dent," Maroni said conversationally as he passed. "You've never worn a white suit before."
Harvey's smile was warm. Genuine. "Perhaps not, Mr. Maroni. Is that strange?"
Of course it's strange, Maroni thought.
Harvey had only worn black suits to court before. Dark colors. Conservative cuts. Because in legal proceedings, plain, dark-toned formal attire conveyed seriousness and professionalism. And the meticulous Harvey Dent—the man who prepared for every contingency, who obsessed over every detail—would never make a mistake in something so fundamental.
He'd experienced countless setbacks in Gotham over the years. Matured rapidly. Learned to remember every tiny detail that could increase his chances of winning.
So why the white suit today?
Doesn't matter, Maroni decided. It's useless to wear anything when the Romans and I have already decided you won't win.
He smiled dismissively and continued toward the witness stand, head turning to scan the courtroom with undisguised satisfaction.
The judge? Three million dollars in bribes, plus threats to his family for insurance. Locked in.
The jury? Three hundred thousand each for most of them. No threats necessary when greed did the work. Twelve bought votes.
The bailiffs? Thirty thousand apiece. Cheap, but effective for basic security.
The gallery? Just boring spectators looking for entertainment. They didn't care who won unless their own interests were directly involved.
Maroni walked calmly toward the witness stand, mentally checking off his victory conditions.
Then, mid-stride, something felt wrong.
A prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Instinct screaming danger.
Wait—that lone figure at the end of the gallery looked familiar.
He turned, scanning the back row more carefully.
There—in the last row, tucked away in the least conspicuous corner—a familiar figure slouched in cheap clothing, eyes half-closed, a pocky stick hanging from his mouth.
Maroni's brain processed the image.
Recognition hit like a truck.
No. NO.
Painful memories flooded through Maroni's mind—uncontrolled, visceral, traumatic:
The burning car outside his restaurant on Valentine's Day. Four guards dead. Explosion rocking the building.
The St. Patrick's Day massacre—his entire hideout slaughtered, dozens dead, himself huddled in a panic room listening to footsteps approaching, certain he was about to die.
And that text message. That goddamn text message that had appeared on his phone in the middle of mortal terror: "Boss, pizza?"
Is that a question a human being asks?!
Maroni had almost died. Multiple times. And this—this jinx—had been present for every single catastrophe.
Jude was like a fuse, instantly igniting all the negative emotions buried in Maroni's heart. When he saw that familiar figure sitting in the courtroom—his courtroom, during his testimony—the alarm bells in Maroni's mind began ringing wildly.
His expression shifted in seconds—from confident to horrified, cycling through emotions like he was wearing a mask of pain. He'd heard about Jude's reputation within the Falcone family during his imprisonment. The disaster star. The curse given human form. The pattern of violence that followed this ordinary-looking man like a shadow.
And this bastard, not satisfied with being fired from Maroni's employment, had followed him to court.
As if summoned by Maroni's attention, Jude noticed him staring.
The young man immediately straightened slightly, put away the pocky stick in his mouth, zipped up his half-open jacket with exaggerated formality, and nodded solemnly at Maroni.
A gesture of respect. Professional courtesy between acquaintances.
This action made Maroni's despair deepen.
If you really respected me, you'd disappear. Right now. Immediately. Forever.
Jude sat in his unassuming corner at the end of the gallery, trying very hard to look like he wasn't slacking off.
He wasn't actually sleepy—the Deep Sleep skill meant five hours of rest was plenty. But the courtroom's atmosphere was far too solemn for his taste. Stuffy. Formal. Oppressive.
Thinking no one would notice a random passerby like him, he'd half-closed his eyes and started playing a system game on his internal HUD—a simple puzzle game that didn't require much attention.
Then someone started staring at him with alarming intensity.
Jude glanced up, noticed Maroni looking at him like he'd seen a ghost, and quickly course-corrected. Put away the pocky. Zipped his jacket. Nodded respectfully.
There. Proper courtroom etiquette maintained. What else does he want from me?
Then his attention shifted to Harvey Dent, and confusion replaced his mild annoyance.
"Holy shit," Jude muttered under his breath. "What's wrong with Harvey today? He looks like a peacock displaying its tail feathers."
Because that's exactly what it looked like.
Prosecutor Harvey Dent stood bathed in courtroom lighting, face lit with a friendly, confident smile. Every movement was elegant, graceful, perfectly calibrated. The white suit and warm expression—which should have seemed inappropriate for a serious trial—somehow looked completely natural on him.
There was no trace of the struggling prosecutor who'd been ground down by Gotham. No evidence of the man carrying impossible burdens, fighting battles he couldn't win, sacrificing pieces of himself for a justice that never quite arrived.
Instead, Harvey looked like the perfect Knight of Light from people's idealized imaginations.
Was it because of Maroni's confession? Because what was about to happen in this courtroom would tear apart one of Gotham's most powerful crime families? Did Harvey want to greet this triumphant day wearing his original appearance—the young, hopeful prosecutor he'd been before Gotham corrupted him?
After all, in many people's eyes, today really was a day full of hope.
But Jude shook his head slowly, studying Harvey's expression more carefully.
No. Something's wrong.
A flower that's already bloomed can't turn back into a bud. Harvey Dent was a scarred fighter now. Battle-worn. Compromised. The flawless Knight of Light wasn't his true nature anymore—hadn't been for years.
So why perform it now?
On the witness stand, Maroni began his testimony with confidence.
He recounted incident after incident—times when he'd cooperated with Carmine Falcone on various criminal enterprises. For these allegations, he had evidence. Documentation. Proof.
"Yes, yes," Maroni said clearly. "The head honcho found Mickey Gazzo and his brother Frank. Had them killed. Dumped their bodies in the Gotham River."
The jury took notes. The judge listened impassively.
"A lot of 'smart' guys," Maroni continued. "The ones you've been looking for? They're all in the Gotham River. Oh—" He laughed bitterly. "I finally understand why I got a stomach ulcer. Maybe it's from drinking too much dirty water over the years."
The courtroom atmosphere shifted.
People exchanged glances. What was Maroni suddenly talking about? This tangent about stomach problems seemed random. Odd.
Harvey's friendly expression flickered. Confusion crossed his face.
"Stomach ulcer?" he repeated carefully.
"Yes, it's killing me." Maroni's voice took on a strange quality. "And perhaps it's killing me along with my conscience, too. Isn't it, Dent?"
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Harvey's smile disappeared completely. His tone hardened, frustration and suspicion flashing across his features—the look of a prosecutor sensing his case slipping away.
"I demand," Harvey said formally, voice rising slightly, "that you answer truthfully under oath. Do you admit that you saw with your own eyes that the murders and felonies just described were committed by Carmine Falcone—the Roman?"
"Falcone?" Maroni's voice cracked. "Cough! Cough!"
He didn't answer the question.
Instead, he began coughing violently—deep, wracking spasms that doubled him over on the witness stand.
His hands fumbled into his jacket pocket.
Reaching for the bottle of medicine.
The stomach medicine Vernon had given him.
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